


The Doors That Open Under a Touch

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock is like a lithe, beautiful cat that’ll probably be incredibly warm, soft and boneless in your hands, a cat you want to jump on—Oh, goodness, steady now." John comes home intoxicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doors That Open Under a Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Every self-respecting fanfic writer should have at least one PWP in their collection and this is mine. A touch of humour, mostly sex—an utterly gratuitious, unpretentious little piece, written simply because I am the Author and I can. It's also a temporary swan song. In October 2010 I wrote a story, which saw Sherlock drunk and John confused about his feelings. It was my first _Sherlock_ fanfiction, "The Point of No Return". (Obviously, on some level I had already known what was coming, judging by my apt choice of title.) This, here, is my sixtieth story. Once again entirely subconsciously, I've made a couple of oblique connections to the first one, thus bringing a cycle to a full circle, as it were. I'm taking leave from _Sherlock fanfic_ ; a hiatus, I hope, not a permanent departure. (Full post with some wise people's very thoughtful opinions on fandom and fanfiction can be found [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/62768.html) at my LJ.) My sincere gratitude to all of you who read my stories, talked to me, and made writing such an amazing experience!

  
The door to the flat meets John’s fingers like warm butter under a knife, opens with reverberating aplomb under barely a feather-light touch. These are spooky events. John lifts his hand to his eyes and examines it for any new powers it may have acquired. Everything looks normal in the dim light of the landing—well, aside from the meek attempt of his index finger to look like two index fingers. John sniffs, crosses the threshold, and stops to get a grip on his surroundings.  
  
He’s doing a decent job, especially for his current predicament, when he starts—he’s spotted a figure on the floor. John pulls his facial muscles up and down to clear his vision and peers at the figure, taking it in better.   
  
“Sherlock!” he says triumphantly, and wobbles. Sherlock—indeed the figure—is scanning him; possibly has been, it occurs to John, since the magic opening of the door. He can now recall a loud bang as that happened, strange to the point of sinister, what with John being sure he hardly pushed the damn thing. He debates sharing this mystery with Sherlock, but it seems like something too complex to get into right now. Besides, Sherlock continues to watch him. _Observe, not watch_ , he’d probably scold. Well, John can give Sherlock a taste of his own medicine.  
  
“You doing yoga?” he says.   
  
Sherlock’s eyes have dropped to John’s shoes; they jump back up when John speaks. Silence.   
  
“No,” Sherlock says.   
  
John is suddenly irritated. Why does Sherlock always have to…deny him? Then he is mostly puzzled over what it is that Sherlock’s saying no to, until at last he remembers his own question about the yoga. But he asked it ages ago! Sherlock’s getting slow! John suppresses a giggle and nods solemnly instead. Sherlock narrows his eyes. John furtively touches his own mouth and finds that it’s still trying to stretch. He also hasn’t stopped nodding, apparently.  
  
“’Cos you’re on the floor like that,” he mumbles, gesturing vaguely at Sherlock’s contorted body. Sherlock frowns. His eyes look terribly clear, gleaming even in the darkened room. John feels an urge to drop on his knees and crawl to Sherlock, bring his face close, closer than he ever allows himself, and watch— _observe_ — those eyes for at least a minute. Sherlock has the most extraordinary eyes. John hasn’t told him that only because it sounds a bit gay.  
  
Sherlock’s voice is nothing short of amazing, either.   
  
“I’m only sitting on the floor with my legs crossed, John,” he says quietly, timbre deepening with every word until John’s name is nothing but a rumbling exhalation. John tries not to sway. There’s a _John, John, John_ echo playing over his ribs, giving him goosebumps. He doesn’t feel like giggling, though. He feels seriously good.  
  
Sherlock’s eyebrows rise a bit. “You’re staring,” he comments with that same velvety voice.   
  
John closes his mouth, waves an unsteady finger towards Sherlock. “Can you stop talking like that, p—” John blinks, takes a breath. “Please,” he manages, and almost doesn’t hiccup.  
  
The eyebrows move half an inch higher. To John’s swimming vision they appear to have climbed on top of Sherlock’s forehead, forming a long arch of mockery.  
  
“So what?” John says defensively, arms flying open, wider and wider, to emphasise his defiance. He can’t quite decide when to stop them. He plants his feet further apart, just in case. “Hadafew pints down the pub. You,” he adds, pointing at Sherlock accusingly. _You wait, Sherlock. I’ve got you._ “You…never come to the pub with me,” John finishes with a firm nod of damnation. Let’s see what Sherlock has to say about that!  
  
Nothing apparently, the ought-to-be-guilty bastard. He’s just studying John from the floor, back propped against the leather chair. He’s like a lithe, beautiful cat that’ll probably be incredibly warm, soft and boneless in your hands, a cat _you_ want to jump on—  
  
Oh, goodness, steady now. John rocks on his heels, then reaches automatically for the wall only to find it deceptively moving away from his fingers.  
  
Sherlock drags himself up with mesmerising, slow grace until at last he’s sitting in his chair. His eyes never leave John’s during his smooth manoeuvre.  
  
They just stay quiet for a while. John is content with this situation. There is an extremely pleasant tickle along his thighs, as if someone is dragging the tips of their thin long fingers up and down. Under John’s jeans. Over the skin. The goosebumps return. John swallows.  
  
“I don’t think you’ve been at just this exact degree of intoxication since I met you,” Sherlock says. It’s as if he’s speaking to himself. John turns his head and tries to squint with his ear, to make sure he didn’t just miss something, although he’s fairly sure he did, only he didn’t, of course—he can’t have missed it if he managed to spot it was _there_ , right? Right? That’s why he’s trying to squint, because he isn’t sure what he missed, he only feels he did. It’s sort of important, he gets that, he really does, that and also, oh yeah, you can’t really squint with your ear.  
  
The floor joins the wall in the unfair game against John’s limbs.  
  
He takes a careful step forward, extends his neck and squints properly at Sherlock. It’s late at night, John manages to deduce with cunning precision by the fact that Sherlock is clad in his pyjamas. Only the kitchen light is on; there’s some streetlight, too, but all in all John’s effort only makes Sherlock’s features blur, evade capture more.  
  
John sighs.  
  
“I’m a bit, yeah…that,” he concedes.   
  
Sherlock places the tips of his fingers together, lifts the fingers to his lips. Watches John, watches. John has no objection whatsoever. It gives him a point of stability in the room. It also takes away the need to do anything. He doesn’t have to move, go to the bathroom, drink water, go to bed, figure out how relationships work, worry about the future, put one foot in front of the other along this chalk line that can just…cease, just like that; existence, some call it…The great Sherlock Holmes is watching him, so all John needs to do is stay put and let him.   
  
John feels his back straighten, his hands drop by his side, his mouth relax. He tries to remain still, just _be_. Someone else is in control, someone he trusts completely. The searing joy the feeling brings threatens to make him well up. He squashes another giggle. “’M so drunk,” he mumbles. He realizes he hasn’t let go of Sherlock’s eyes, either.  
  
“Hmm,” Sherlock responds. John’s eyes widen and he slowly smiles at Sherlock, a numb-lipped, dangerous smile aimed to do nothing but please. Please Sherlock. Please.  
  
They stare at each other for a very, very long time.  
  
Sherlock’s lips open. “Come here,” he breathes out.  
  
John steadies himself first, then finds that his feet are padding along the floor in Sherlock’s direction. He stops several inches away from the chair. His perception of distance is rapidly returning, along with his general judgement. It doesn’t change anything of importance whatsoever.  
  
Sherlock’s head has lifted so that he can maintain their eye contact. John forces his own eyes to focus at this proximity, but Sherlock’s features are still enticingly soft, making John want to lean down, _closer_. He is also able to smell Sherlock now, the power of his unique scent coolly insinuating itself over the smell of alcohol.   
  
John licks his lips. Sherlock’s eyelids drop a tiny fraction.   
  
“Get on your knees…John,” he says.  
  
Dazed, John is grateful to do just that. He is grateful he’s told what to do. He is grateful he’s not expected to speak. Or think too much, for that matter. Yeah, he’s most grateful about that.  
  
That, and being asked to do something that’s quite what he wants to do. Sherlock will figure out what John wants to do next, before even John has. Sherlock has always been able to figure out John, from the very beginning. All John has to do is to wait, and he will find out exactly what he wants; he’ll find out now, just now, there.  
  
Sherlock opens his legs without a word. Exotic and masterful, his eyes bore into John’s, transmitting. John swallows, shuffles forward on his knees, and settles between Sherlock’s thighs. He feels his jaw beginning to loosen again. Unthinking, he places his hands on Sherlock’s legs.  
  
The flesh is hard, muscled, too warm under the fine material of the pyjama bottoms. John splays his fingers and lightly brings down his palms. Sherlock’s eyelashes stutter without warning.  
  
John’s mouth goes dry.  
  
Sherlock holds John’s eyes as if he’s about to let him in on a secret. Then his chin dips and his gaze lowers to his crotch with slow deliberation, before lifting up to John’s face again.  
  
Yes. Oh God yes, God yes, God _yes_.   
  
It’s John’s mind’s turn to stutter.  
  
His eyes drop to Sherlock’s lap to find a slim line curving unmistakably under the cotton of the pyjamas. John’s nostrils expand as, fascinated, he watches the line twitch. He sluggishly looks up to Sherlock’s face to find his eyes dark, hardly anything left of the iris. John looks back to the spot between Sherlock’s legs. His left hand lifts, hovers over it, relishing the surge of pure, uncomplicated anticipation, then covers the curve firmly and slides upward.   
  
Sherlock’s hips rise on cue. He is throbbing, hot and he is hardening in John’s hand, _Jesus_. John sets his knees further apart, takes hold of the rim of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, and tugs. Sherlock lightly bites his bottom lip and lifts. On his return he slides a bit lower.  
  
John looks down, filled with hungry curiosity.   
  
Sherlock’s cock is half-erect, suspended against the nest of his pubic hair—a pale, unequivocal form in the sparse light. It’s…It is…Well, the only definition that finds its way through John’s hazy mind is that it is John’s, _for_ John. Who else’s would it be? All of this can only be John’s. There’s no one like John for Sherlock, none. Just like there’s no one like Sherlock for John. _Sometimes_ , John thinks, reeling a bit, _sometimes, it’s like there’s no one_ but _you_.  
  
God, why, _why_ is he thinking when he wants to blow Sherlock more than he wants to come himself?   
  
Sherlock has stopped breathing. His eyebrows have knitted together; his cheekbones have hollowed in subtle distress. With amused snort John shakes his head at him, at himself, then swiftly lowers his head.  
  
He takes hold of Sherlock’s cock and instantly places the head in his mouth, tongue rushing to swirl around it. “Ah,” Sherlock utters, a sigh that’s part revelation, part something akin to pain. John folds his fingers tighter around the shaft and continues to mouth at the glans, sucking gently and flattening his tongue over the most sensitive spots. He has no idea what he should be doing; he only _knows_ what comes natural. Sherlock is breathing all right now. He has grown fully hard, commanding in John’s hand. John can feel the tension in his entire body—from the lower abdominal muscles through the thighs that are clasped around John, holding him a willing prisoner, to Sherlock’s hard fists on the armrests.   
  
John is darkly titillated by the amount of saliva his own body is producing. He moves his hand up and down to spread it, listens to the wet noise, so familiar, so utterly new. Sherlock gasps when John twists his hold on the upstroke and sticks his tongue in the slit. It feels incredibly good. John feels incredibly good, liberated, free to let go like he never has. He does—he lets go of all that’s boundaries and future. He tries to swallow Sherlock to the root, chokes, drags him out, then mouths up and down on the head again. Sherlock starts making keening noises and John looks up. Sherlock’s lips have parted into a perfect, helpless little circle. John takes him out of his mouth and goggles at him in a mixture of adoration and fury, fury at this man’s confounding, wonderful existence.  
  
Earlier in the pub John licked and chewed on his bottom lip all night, peeling off tiny flakes of epidermis, leaving fresh, itchy new skin exposed underneath. His lips are burning now, needing to be soothed. John surges upwards and places a hand behind Sherlock’s neck, brings their faces close, and stops for a second, eyes fluttering shut.  
  
A full, damp mouth presses against his raw lips and a tongue flicks against his. John gasps and pulls Sherlock’s thin body nearer, kissing him deeply, depositing eager, desperate breaths in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s tongue, skittish yet demanding, sends shocks through John’s entire body as if an angry God is throwing down lightning strikes from the top of a mountain.   
  
They kiss, frantic and uninhibited, both panting and clutching at each other’s hair, neck, shoulders. Sherlock’s mouth is delicious beyond measure, a plush memory-foam mini-cushion on which John’s thin, plain lips luxuriate until John wants to cry again.   
  
He lets go of the kiss abruptly and drops his head back between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock slumps and his head falls back, mouth gaping at the ceiling. John takes him in again, the taste of musk and pre-ejaculate hitting his taste buds hard after the clear taste of Sherlock’s mouth. He keeps the suction tight, rolls the skin up and down with a tireless, repeated twist, rubs his thumb at the spot that usually makes John swear when he brings himself off.   
  
John’s useless, tipsy right hand fumbles at his own flies, not even bothering with the belt. He pushes into the opening, impatient, brushing his cock through his boxer shorts in the process, _fuck_ , until he aborts his mission and grabs himself through his trousers. The obscenities he mutters around Sherlock make Sherlock groan. John’s nostrils stick to the nasal wall as John breathes in only through his nose. The thought that he’s unable to breathe properly because his mouth is stuffed with Sherlock’s cock sends his palm grinding harder against his own. He almost sobs with pleasure and frustration, just as a sound that resembles his name floats from above his head.  
  
John lifts his eyes and watches the heaving, delicate planes of Sherlock’s chest. His mind is empty of anything but marvel and arousal. He abandons all whimsical, crafty work with his tongue and lips and starts sucking off Sherlock in earnest, head bobbing in a brutally efficient, unimaginative way. Sherlock’s body tenses with each slide down; his breathing gets louder each time John moves up. There’s quickly more than John’s saliva in his mouth and John knows Sherlock is close. A rush of random images projects onto the canopy of John’s eyelids: Sherlock looking at notes on the mirror; the line of Sherlock’s neck as he leans over a microscope; the corner of Sherlock’s mouth as it twitches in unabashed delight with his own mental processes; Sherlock’s sincere, pure, serious eyes as he learns something new from John…The cut of the lapels on his charcoal suit, the two identical fine lines between his eyebrows as he plays the violin, the almost feminine heaviness of his hips and bottom under the blue gown…  
  
John wants Sherlock to come in his mouth more than he wanted his fourth beer tonight. He is sure it won’t taste like beer, but he wants it all the same. The obscenity of the desire makes him hum loudly. His hand shoots from the clumsy tease it’s been giving John’s cock and cups Sherlock’s testicles, rolling them. John’s left hand tightens its slick hold, moves quicker, just as his lips do, their vacuum making Sherlock hands fly open, tense up, bones coming to the surface as tender, indisputable evidence that Sherlock is flesh and blood, so very human.  
  
Sherlock’s hips twitch up once more and then there’s a cascade of sounds, a breathless stream of _oh, oh, oh_. His body is a vibrating string under John’s hands. John half-blacks out—sensations attack him like a hailstorm and he closes his eyes, doesn’t seek to hide, but lets them beat sweet bruises onto him.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful beta [](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/profile)[**disastrolabe**](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/) for managing to leave me meaningful notes even on a PWP and for being a brilliant, incomparable teacher. Original entry [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/62031.html#cutid1) on LJ.


End file.
